A Detective Riddled With Questions
by Nylffn
Summary: Challenge by BlueEye White Dragon Sorcerer, Detective!Darker!Harry, AU, TMR/HP story. Harry Potter was abused by his relatives, then he was saved by an old man named Dumbledore. After ten years of training and a year in Japan, he has come back to deal with old nightmares and the man who pushed the already rolling stone of frustration in Harry's life - mass murder Lord Voldemort.
1. Chapter 1

Eleven years is a long time when you hate the people caring for you.

Eleven years is a long time when you're an outcast, abandoned by society and those drunken people who you once referred to as parents so, _so_ long ago; that time when you didn't even know what a parent was.

Eleven years is a long time for a person who has given up on the illusion known as life.

It's especially long when your so-called _family_ has deemed you unworthy of their presence; unless it is to beat you, or shove you into the cupboard you call your sanctuary, or mock those who you thought had loved you, or force you to do chores that a child of your age shouldn't be doing. It hurt when they would talk about your freakishness when they knew you were listening, or how they would chat about how stupid your drunkards of parents had been to die in that car crash ten years ago.

This was what Harry Potter's life was like for as long as he could remember.

"BOY!" a vicious rumbling voice stirred the dust and cobwebs hanging on Harry's ceiling, making Harry sneeze as the mix landed on his nose.

"Yes, uncle Vernon?" he shouted meekly though the door. The door to his cupboard was wrenched open by a pair of meaty hands, and little Harry came face-to-face with his ill-tempered uncle.

"Why hasn't breakfast been made yet, boy?" he asked with rage in his voice. Harry was about to answer when a knock came at the door. The large man looked back to the malnourished child, and took hold of his hair before throwing him farther into his 'room'. The boy's head made impact with the wall with a sickening cracking sound that would make a lesser man wince. Heavy footsteps retreated to the front door. An almost non-existent creak of the door opening was enough for the house to go deathly quiet. At the door stood a man with a long white beard, his hair was also white in color, and longer than his beard, his blue eyes twinkled with knowledge, and his elderly form was posed in a friendly manner, but held an air of intimidation.

"Hello, would you happen to be Vernon Dursley?" the man asked. Vernon nodded and opened the door wider, allowing the man inside.

When the man came in, Vernon turned to make his way to the living room, but he didn't make it far before a cold cylindrical piece of metal was held against his back.

"Well, I'm glad you are sir. You see, I've been told my some of my sources that you have been holding a kidnapped child in your house for the past ten years. His name is Harry Potter, black messy hair, green eyes, lightning bolt scar on his forehead; does this ring any bells, sir?" the old man asked.

"W-Who are you?!" Vernon screeched.

"My name is Albus Dumbledore, but that isn't the answer to my question."

A soft knock came from the coat cupboard under the stairs.

Surely the kidnapped boy wasn't…

"H-Hello? Have you come to take me from here, sir?" a small voice asked from the confines of the enclosed space.

"Shut up, boy!" Vernon roared. The muzzle of the gun nudged against his back harder, and the fat man went stiff.

"You, Vernon Dursley, are under arrest for keeping a kidnapped child, and possible assistance in the murder of his parents."

And that was how the eleven years of torture were ended for the green-eyed boy who had given up on life; and the years of training to be an undercover detective for this man had started, training to hunt down the notorious Voldemort who had murdered the boy's parents.

~X~ Eleven years later ~X~

Japan was roughly the size of America's California, and Tokyo alone had more than the population of all of New York City. This fact made it difficult for Harry to walk around, but made it easy for him to go mostly undetected; his height was about the same as most people around him, it was times like these that he was glad he was short. In his hand was a case that might have been for an instrument of some kind, but Harry knew otherwise. Inside the case was a small stash of black market weapons, just a few pistols really. Still, he needed to get these back to the station so he could shows the others the way to where he had gotten these.

It had been six months since he had been put on this mission and it was coming along very well. In fact, this time next week everyone he had seen wandering the black market would be behind bars; and he would be happily spending all the cash he will have collected from the job. Life couldn't be easier.

He shoved his way through the crowd to get out of the stream of people; he had reached his destination. He waltzed in to the station and straight to the back where he knew his partner for this job would be awaiting his arrival. He was glad he had gotten to work with the eccentric little man, even if he hadn't done any of the field work at all.

"Yo, Flitwick-san! I've got these guns here," Harry said as he pulled out a slip of paper from his pocket. He waved it around a bit before sliding it over the desk to the short man in front of him. "And this – _this_ is the address of the black market where I found them. There are a few of them around that area as well, so you might want to stake out the area before you go in." Harry set the guns down on the desk next to the slip of paper with a smirk.

"We can't thank you enough, Potter-san. How much longer do you plan to stay in Japan for? We could always use a helping hand here at the station," Flitwick said hopefully. Harry smiled but shook his head.

"Sorry, after I get the cash from this mission, I'm on a four o'clock plane back to London." With that Harry waved and walked out the door, a stupid smile plastered on his face. He'd be back home in London soon enough.

~X~X~X~

The Japanese government had so graciously gifted Harry with quite the sum of money for this mission. He really didn't need it though, he had vaults of cash left to him by his _not drunkard_ parents. Although it was nice not having to dip into his savings for his trip back to London. A good ten thousand pounds; the Japanese had been very kind and had it converted for him so he didn't have to worry about going through the process in England.

The moment he stepped off of his plane he had been greeted by an old friend; a tall man with snowy hair and sky blue eyes.

"Well, hello sensei." Harry greeted in English, though there was a Japanese hint in his voice and the wording wasn't exactly English. Consider it his way of telling the man that he still had yet to get used to his mother tongue again. Dumbledore smiled warmly at him for his attempt to speak properly again after a full year of speaking next to no English.

"Welcome back, Harry. I have a request of you, if you would be so kind as to hear me out?" Dumbledore requested. Harry shrugged and trailed after his old teacher.

~X~X~X~

An hour after Harry had gotten off of his plane it was 2100 hours and he was tired. He almost fell asleep in car on the way to where ever it was that Dumbledore was taking him. He had dozed off during half of the explanation about whatever it was that Dumbledore wanted him to do.

Apparently, Harry had been recruited to be part of a special task force in London that solved crimes in a Sherlock-Homes-like way. As he had been out of the country and his phone number had been changed for the sake of international calling, there had been absolutely no way to contact him and tell him about this.

Also, on a very special note, their next mission was an infiltration of Voldemort's forces! This was what he had been dreaming of since he had turned twelve, being able to take down the bastard that set his life into a string of messed up moments with his last living relative. While Grindelwald, a famous serial killer who had been the one to start a gang war that had the FBI on their toes, had been the one to start his trauma by forcing his parents into the heat of the fight, Voldemort had ended up being the one to actively seek his parents out to kill them. He had been the one to put a bullet through his father's head for a swift death, and his mother… his mother fought valiantly to save his life, but she to found a bullet in her head; but her efforts gave enough time for the FBI to show up and come smashing down the doors, Lord Voldemort only had enough time to carve a lightning bolt into infant Harry's head as his gun had run out of bullets.

Anyway, Harry was upset to hear that the position as spy for the mission was already taken by Severus Snape, a man who had a knack for vicious "potions" as many people called them; horrible formulas that could paralyze a grown elephant with a sniff, crazy brews that could cure the most uncommon of poisons, ways to drain the life out of a man with a sip. He might have been an amazing chemical mixer, but he had a personality like a bottle of his skin boiling brew; heated glares, too much sass, an unworthy amount of hate for everything with legs, _greasy_. If Harry really thought about it, he guessed he was perfect for the position as spy; he'd fit right in.

It didn't stop him from being upset about it though.

It also hit him where it hurt to hear that ever position for that mission was filled and that he would have to do something else in the meantime. Harry was very pissed off about that, he was looking forward to killing the bloody bastard.

He didn't stop himself from grumbling about that though, much unlike the fact that a greasy bat got the position of spy.

Soon they had arrived at their destination, and Harry had to admit that he was a bit impressed with the place. Harry had always had a liking for the Victoria Era and snakes, and this house fit his tastes to a tee; a grand piano, dark colors and fancy patterns, greens, blacks, silvers, four poster beds (Harry wasn't sure why those were there), snakes seemed to be a reoccurring theme in the house, golden statues, and portraits. All very beautiful, and Harry couldn't help but feel like he would live there willingly if it hadn't been his work space.

"Harry, consider this place your home. I know that it's a bit dreary, but we're trying to lighten the place up. It originally belonged to Sirius Black. You remember him right, your godfather?" Yeah, Harry remembered him. How could he forget? He was the closest thing he had ever had to a parent, and then Voldemort swooped in like a crow a stole his soul away to the depths of hell. Harry held back tears, he had yet to get over his death, and had been drowning himself in work to try and forget. "You know Harry, in his will he said that after Voldemort was dealt with, he wanted to give this place to you; to live in, not to work in, of course. It'll definitely be much brighter when Voldemort is gone." Thing was, Harry didn't want it brighter. He wanted it to stay like it was, he loved it like this. It seemed to sit his current personality like a wet suit.

Harry was lead up to his room. It seemed the beds were there because it had originally been a house for an old, rich family, and they hadn't found the time to renovate the rooms into offices yet.

The moment he got to his room he shooed Dumbledore out and collapsed on his bed, desperate for a good night's sleep. He could deal with the other residents in the house later on tomorrow, for now he wanted to sleep away his thoughts of his Godfather – even if that meant sleeping with a nightmare riddled sleep.

~X~X~X~

~X~X~X~

 _A/N:_ So this was a challenge from BlueEyes White Dragon Sorcerer. So I thought I might as well try it out. I might combine the later chapters into a oneshot. I'm not sure though. This is my first challenge, and I do so love a challenge. Tell me what you think in the reviews. A fair warning, There is a high chance that I'll forget about this for half a year and come back to it. I don't mean any harm, but I've got to get all these ideas out of my face before I can work on my earlier stuff, ya know? Also note, I have no beta! Thanks, ttfn!

~Nylffn


	2. Chapter 2

_An evil laugh echoed through his head like nails on a chalkboard in an empty room. His hands came up to cover his ears, but they were chained down to a heavy block of solid shimmering blood, chains of an empty night sky, and a black fog of feathers held him down like a set of barbells over his lungs. The chains rattled and clanked together with resonating echoes in the darkness, and the laugh increased to a deafening pitch. His mind told him to scream, his mouth refused. He wanted to get out of there, to run away and cry, to face his fears,_ _ **anything**_ _! He would do_ _ **anything**_ _, so long as the laughing would_ _ **stop**_ _._

 _That laugh that haunted his every move, the laugh that he had been forced to hear as a knife slid along his godfather's throat. His eyes hadn't been able to move from the blood dripping from the throat in front of him. When had his godfather appeared? Was he a ghost? He certainly looked like one; face pale like spoiled milk, eyes hallow, curly hair tangled in a mess of dust and pieces of stone, his body suspended but completely limp – like a hanged man. Harry tried to close his eyes, to scamper away and hide, but the chains held him still and the feathers robbed him of his remaining breath – clogging his nose and mouth choking him. He had never wanted to see those images in his mind again! He swore he would get rid of that voice to!_

 _Why couldn't he leave the past in the past!?_

" _Oh, my_ _ **dear**_ _ **Harry**_ _, you know why… You wanted him to die didn't you? You wanted to be alone. Don't you remember?" the laughing had stuttered to a stop and had become an overly gleeful chuckle of words. Harry's mind protested, his mouth flopped open and close, pants of exertion left his mouth, feathers puffed out of his mouth like smoke only to be suck back in farther down his throat, they blocked his vocal chords, grabbed at them and tugged – removing them from his body. It was almost like his throat had been slit. He sure felt that way, like he was drowning in his own blood and a pile of deadly feathers._

 _Feather-light, sharp, scary, dying, boney, rotting, smelling of dead bodies, hard as iron, soft like snake scales, unyielding. They were hands... The hands, they were everything, but yet they were barely there, he could feel them trailing down his spine, caressing his cheek, pulling his hair, scratching his throat, holding him under syrupy blood. They were gone in a momentary whisper of laughter._

" _My dear,_ _ **dear Harry**_ _, you remember it all don't you? Should I remind you? So you don't forget? You have to accept the fact that you were the one to_ _ **kill**_ _him in_ _ **cold blood**_ _." The laughing resumed, louder, higher, more chilling than before. He squeezed his eyes shut violently; this had to be a nightmare. Yet, when his eyes were closed all he could see was red, a deep, dark, bloody red. His eyes._ _ **His eyes!**_ _Wake up! Wake up! WAKE UP! WAKEUP! WAKEUP, WAKEUP! WAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUP! NOW YOU BLASTED FOOL!_

 _Finally his vocal chords regained their senses. His screams filled the air, but they were nothing more than flutters of breath compared to the laughing._

 _The laugh,_ _ **his**_ _laugh, the screeching laugh,_ _ **his pure**_ _ **nightmarish laugh**_ _…_

" _Harry, Harry!" he laughed, oh god, make him stop! "Harry, Harry,_ _ **Harry, Harry!**_ _" Clawed, bony hands grabbed at his neck. "I'll take you to him, so you won't be so_ _ **lonely**_ _, my dear!" Make it stop! Make him stop! The voice didn't relent._

" _Harry, Harry!_ _ **HARRY! HARRY! HARRY!**_ _"_

~X~X~X~

"Harry!" He was shaken awake by familiar hands, screams scratched his throat. The hands! Get them off! He tossed and turned like a bear in a trap. His mind was only a mantra of ' _Get free, he'll kill you to! Get free!'_ No, wait. These were the hands of Dumbledore, not of Voldemort, he was safe now. He forced his breathing to return to normal. ' _Calm down_ ,' he told himself, ' _you aren't dead yet_.'

Harry's breathing began to go back to normal if a bit ragged. He rubbed at his eyes with the back of his clammy hand and took a deep, jagged breath. His eyes were wet with tears, and his hand was shaking even as he pressed it firmly against his bright emerald-like eyes.

On shaky legs, he got out of his bed and made his way over to where he knew the door would be. He needed to get to the bathroom, fast.

"Harry, my dear boy, where are you…" Dumbledore paused when Harry look back and glared at him with fierce aggression.

"Do not say the word _dear_ around me, got that?" Harry viciously spat out the words and continued to make his way to the bathroom.

The emerald eyed boy had to lean heavily against the dark walls for support, his wobbly legs threatening to give out under him. His face was set in a firm, grim line as he trudged his way to the door just a few paces away. A small smile graced his lips as his hands hit the handle. He twisted the knob about half way before it stopped.

Why did it stop moving? Why? He needed to get in there! He needed to be able to splash some cold water on his face, force those images out of his mind with the frigid reality of the cold, the wet crawling down his neck, anything to distract him. He needed to allow his stomach to empty its contents in to the toilet; not the fancy area around him. He was feeling even worse as he struggled with the knob. Finally a click was heard from it, and the knob would move freely.

The door swung inwards. A sharp squeak hit the air as someone's face intercepted the door.

It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. He needed to get those bloody images out of his head.

His legs gave out from under him, and, with a hand over his aching stomach, he puked. All over a pair of ratty shoes that did _not_ belong in this fancy house. Satin slippers, or polished leather dress shoes most defiantly. These shoes… god these shoes were so out of place. Maybe they'd get replaced due to his failure to make it into the bathroom, and then the stranger would thank him. Either way, he was feeling weaker, and it was taking all he had not to fall forward on to the stranger's shoes.

"A hand, please," Harry pleaded in Japanese, momentarily forgetting about his current location.

"Sorry, what?" a male voice asked skeptically. Harry looked up weakly and saw a lanky man with a head full of ginger. Harry sighed lightly before he held up his hand.

"Right, England. A hand up, please," Harry said again, his voice still had a light Japanese accent, but it was in English nonetheless. The man nodded and grasped his hand to lift him up. The ginger began to help him to the sink when he spoke again, something more intelligent this time it would seem.

"So, Japanese, huh? What cha' doing here? Thought only Order members were allowed here," he asked with an almost worrisome tone. Harry turned on the faucet and ignored the redhead entirely. He splashed some water on his face and smiled lightly; there wasn't really anything better than cold water on the face after being sick… okay so there were a lot of things that could compete for number one best feeling, but that didn't matter; this was great for forgetting, for getting your mind off of things, allowing your mind to focus on the feeling of liquid ice running down your face instead of tears.

Once again the ginger tried for his attention.

"Oi! Answer me will ya?" he tried; Harry still didn't find the need to respond to him. The man sighed.

"Bloody hell, you deaf or something?" the ginger asked with an annoyed expression. Harry turned around, suddenly feeling much better. His hands were like vipers striking down prey; only his hands were going for a shirt collar, not a kill.

Not this time at least.

The ginger broke out into a cold sweat as Harry held his face only inches from his own with a ferocious expression on his face. The fright in those blue eyes was quite flattering, at least according to Harry it was. Fright always meant an easy job; maybe he could take this boy's position in the mission.

"W-What are you doing?" the boy stuttered. Harry smiled lightly.

"Oh, nothing much, just judging your character." The hands holding the ginger up were released, and he slid down the door, shaking in his disgusting shoes. Harry tilted his head a bit and smiled. "Please, do have a nice day."

Then Harry left.

~X~X~X~

' _I just have to get into the kitchen, grab something quick to eat, and get out. There shouldn't be anyone there. Right? There won't be any people there… I'm sure of it! Yeah! Let's go, and do this!'_ Harry thought to himself, trying to ready himself for the chance of being in a contained space with many people.

His feet moved swiftly through the deadly silent house. It was a rather nice change from the hustle and bustle in Japan, and Harry reveled in the silence.

' _Maybe, just maybe, there's no one here!'_

 _ **CRASH!  
SLAM!  
THUD!**_

"SORRY, MUM!"

No, oh no; Harry's life would simply be _too easy_ to let him be alone in his own house, for silence to reign supreme in his mind. That would be too damn easy, wouldn't it?

No matter, he decided. He willed his legs to continue making their way to where he knew the kitchen would be. The faster he got there then got out, the faster he could return to the silence of his room. Or maybe he could just kick everybody out of the house? Was that even a thing he could do? He was the new master of the house, so why would it be an issue?

"Because it would mean I would hinder the mission I can't go on," he muttered to himself in vexation.

He finally had arrived at the door, and he was as conflicted as a rabbit next to a poacher. In other words, he wanted to run away at top speed and never come back to this door unless his life depended on it; there was really no questioning that fact. He could hear the loud, obnoxious noises coming from within already. He couldn't stand loud noises.

Yet, despite his inner conflict, his hand reached for the door handle, rapacious hunger getting the better of him. His move to open the door was in vain though it would seem; as it was wrenched open by a fuming, young, female redhead. Her liquid magma-like hair shielded her eyes from his view, and obviously him from her as she ran straight into him. When their bodies came into contact she looked up, with an expression of unadulterated outrage, but stepped back all the same. Her brown eyes looked him over, her arms were crossed, and she was giving off dangerous vibes.

Harry didn't have time for this.

"Pardon me," he said, voice only slightly tipped with anger. The red-head didn't budge; instead, she had the audacity to talk back.

"And just _why_ should I get out of your way? Who the bloody hell are you anyway?" she asked. God he wanted to hit her. You know that rule that almost all guys seem to live by, the one that says you can't hit a girl? Yeah, he didn't play by that rule.

He grabbed her arm gently, almost affectionately. Her muddy eyes widened as a smattering of pink dusted her cheeks.

"H-Hey… Let go of me…" she tried to say, but was too embarrassed that this guy was touching her arm like a long-lost lover. He smiled a small heart-melting smile.

Then, with the force of a cougar, he twisted her arm behind her back. She let out a painful yelp.

"Let me go you bastard!" she shouted. He ignored her obnoxious voice and walked to the door. He yanked the old black wood to the side so he could get in. Only after he had stepped over the threshold did he carelessly toss her to the side. She gave another yelp.

God, she was noisy even when she was trying to not show such pitiful whimpering.

A group of startled red-heads greeted him just beyond the door. A few of them looked quite angered by the fact that he had just tossed the girl to the side like an old, undesirable book. Then again, he had to disagree with that statement; he would never do that to a poor book.

Like with the tattered shoe boy, he ignored them and continued on. Food was the only thing on his mind. He hadn't eaten since he had gotten here form the airport almost twelve hours ago. His eyes never deterred from the beautiful fridge. His hand lightly touched the handle and pulled it open with two fingers. He was quite disappointed to see that there was no fish of any sort. Cooking would take too long however, so he instead went for a can of soda and two mandarins from a red-mesh sack of them.

"Hey! Only we can have the sodas! We bought them!" a rather tall red-head shouted. Why were there so many gingers in his house?

He didn't like gingers, they reminded him of the old and scarce pictures he had of his mother. Red hair that flowed around a perfect face with shining green eyes. Red hair that framed a face with dull lifeless eyes that once shone with brilliance. Yet, searing images of eyes scorched his thoughts. Red eyes that were unflinching towards a kill. Red eyes that flashed with glee while he watched his enemies and _subordinates_ have their skin peeled back like the rough, disgusting outer skin of a carrot. Red had always been connected with the red eyes of Voldemort and the hair of his mother who lie six feet under.

"And just who might you be?" Harry asked with disdain. The tall one looked offended.

"Why, I'm only the most important person here –"

"Got it. That doesn't answer my question Baka-San." The idiot puffed out his cheeks.

"What the bloody hell is a 'baka'?"

Once again Harry ignored everyone and made his way towards the exit, soda and mandarins still in hand. Sadly, nothing was going right for him.

"Well, I see you've met the Weasleys my boy?" Dumbledore said with a grandfatherly smile. Harry shrugged and moved to pass the old man.

He shut his eyes in frustration. ' _Why are there so many people here? Bloody hell, it's too much, I have to get out of here. RIGHT. NOW.'_

In his temporary blindness that came from his shut eyes he ran into a body. When he opened his eyes to look at the person he ran into he wanted to scream; it was that damn ratty shoe boy again. He looked him in the eyes, moved to grab his collar, then, almost as a last minute decision, he reached for the door knob instead. The boy was shaking violently, and breathing a bit heavily.

What a coward.

Without so much as a word to the old man or the boy, he left, the door slamming in his wake.

~X~X~X~

"Dumbledore, who was that guy?" Ron asked the wise old man with a look of disgust once the green eyed man had left the room.

"That, Ron my dear boy, is the master of the house, Harry Potter. Please remember that he has just gotten back from Japan, and will be adjusting himself back to an English life style. Japan has humbled him greatly," Dumbledore responded.

"Humbled?" the room of redheads asked. Dumbledore nodded. "But don't worry; he'll be back to normal soon. Just give him a while… a few months maybe…"

~X~X~X~

~X~X~X~

A/N: Hey, here's another chapter. I hope you all liked it. I have to apologize for any mistakes, as I do not have a beta. I'm pretty sure I mentioned that before... oh well. Also, I forgot about a disclaimer last chapter. I generally only say these once, so it'll just have to be at the end of chapter two; I DO NOT OWN HARRY POTTER! there, it has been said and done.

Please Review and whatnot, tell me what you think, what you might be expecting to see as the story progresses. You never know it could inspire me. Reviews are great inspiration.

Did that sound desperate?

That sounded desperate to me...

~Nylffn


	3. Chapter 3

_~ Number 12 Grimmauld Place~_

 _~X~ 4 months later ~X~_

Harry's feet carried him through the spacious mansion. Only one month ago had the group of redheads left for their part of the mission. Currently they were in Little Hangleton playing around near the _Dark Lord_ 's – really, who would call him a dark lord? – hideout. Meanwhile Harry was forced to lie back at home and contemplate the uselessness of the Weasleys who had decided to overrun his life.

He could handle their annoying behavior, but only just. They dressed in rags and tatters, insisting that they were not such things; they ran amok like hooligans in _his_ house, telling him to sod off or that they were doing important Order business whenever he told them to cool down and stop making a racket. They were a lucky group of people to have first met him after he was forced to reign in his temper for six months nonstop; had they met him prior to that they might have been the bright red contrast that the house needed in the basement.

The hair, not their blood… but that wouldn't be a bad touch either.

Harry ran a finger over the grand piano that sat in the front room with a frown on his face. Who in the world would ever let such a beauty become smothered in dust? He rubbed his fingers together to get the dust off before he sat down at the leather bench. A slim finger came out and gently pressed down on middle C. A smile tugged at his lips as his hand went up the piano to rest on A, and then his hands began to glide. A soft sonata began to fly through the air; keys were pressed with precision and the ever flowing hands of a pianist, the sounds were like gusts of wind over a stagnant pond in the silence of the house that roamed before, the smooth feel of the keys whispered under his deft fingertips, the delicate lento smoothly gave away to the fierce and sudden crescendo.

"Lyric Pieces, Book 9, Op. 68: No. 3, At Your Feet, am I wrong?" A key was missed.

Hands crashed down on the keys forming a ghastly broken sound, the appalling finale to a beautiful piece.

An eyebrow was cocked, and a glare was given.

"Who are you?"

"Tom, Tom Riddle."

"And what the bloody hell are you doing in my home? Better yet, how did you get in?"

" _I_ let him in," Dumbledore said from behind the handsome man who was intruding on Harry's home. Harry scrambled to stand.

"Dumbledore, why have you brought this man into my house?" Harry demanded.

"Tom here is our new consultant. He will be staying here for a few weeks," Dumbledore responded with a genial smile.

"Yes, but why? The house is quite for once! Can't you send him off with the Weasleys or something; I'm sure they could use the help!" Harry exclaimed in outrage. How dare Dumbledore continue to use his godfather's home against his wishes? The moment that they took Voldemort down Harry would kick everyone out.

"He is here because he is new. I would have put him out on the field if I had already known what he was capable of handling, but currently I don't know. Tom Riddle will be staying here, Harry. And that is final." Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Dumbledore had swept out of the room leaving Tom and Harry alone. Harry took this time to look over the new recruit.

He was tall… very tall; at least two heads higher than harry stood, taller than that lanky Weasley boy with the tattered shoes even. Harry had to tilt his head back a bit to look into the man's eyes.

Red.

His eyes were red.

No…

Harry's eyes were wide and terrified; he quickly pushed passed the man and made his way for his room.

The halls were too long; he needed some sort of solitary comfort he could only get at the end of this tunnel-like hall.

There was no light at the end of his tunnel, there never was.

His nightmares would always haunt him; nightmares of eyes, red eyes… _His_ eyes. Eyes like those of Lord Voldemort…

No, these thoughts would only plague him.

In his panic he scrambled for his door that had only just come into his line of sight. He clawed at the door and made for his bed before he sank down like a brick in a pool.

A knock sounded from his ornate door that might have line of scratches going down the outside. Harry refused to react to the soft noise and snuggled deeper into his fluffy blankets that had rescued him from his own mind. The knocked continued louder this time. This time when no response came from the pile of blankets, the door was opened from the outside.

"I don't believe that I can properly apologize if I don't know why you bolted off like you were being chased by hell hounds."

"Fuck off, Riddle." There was a weight that dipped his bed to the side making the pile of blankets shift again. "Get out of my room; I know that you don't actually want to apologize, so I see no reason for you to stay."

A deep, muffled chuckle landed on Harry's ears.

"But of course I want to apologize, how else am I supposed to be your… _friend_?" The word friend was stressed like Riddle was unused to saying that word. His voice even sounded a little disgusted, like it was a necessary evil to use the f-word for his own gain. Harry laughed against the blankets slowly suffocating him. Why did he think this was a good idea?

"I have no need for _friends_."

The blankets were suffocating him, wrapping around his body like silk chains, grappling at his neck like cold hands.

"Surely you could find use in having at least one," Riddle insisted. He should leave; Harry needed to get out of these blankets, out of this room. No, he wouldn't yield until Riddle left.

"Well, I'm sure there's no harm in having _one_ friend… Lucky for you, you'll never have to fill that position, Riddle. Get the fuck out of my room."

A hand fell onto his leg, only the blanket separated them from skin-on-skin contact.

"Well, _dear_ –" Riddle began to purr. Nope. This was too much.

Harry thrashed about under his blanket like a breached fish, completely desperate to get away from the hand, the words, the _eyes_. He managed to wriggle his way out of the blankets and knock Riddle off of his bed where he had been sitting. His mind was far away, hidden in a corner of darkness deep within his soul, begging for this sociological trauma to end. He punch Riddle in the nose, grabbed his collar and shoved him up against one of the bed posts, sure the designs were digging into the man's back painfully.

" _Never_ , say that word." Harry dropped Riddle with dull green eyes, and heavy panting. He walked from the room jerkily, only to collapse in the doorway twisting this way and that succumbing to the seizer.

~X~X~X~

 _It's too quite._

 _It could be the calm before the storm._

 _No, it was the calm in-between storms._

 _"No, Sirius! I want to kill him as much as you do! I'm just not strong enough!" a fourteen year old boy screamed._

 _"Well get stronger!" an older man, in his mid-thirties would be about his age, with curly black hair yelled back._

 _"I can't! I'm not good enough!"_

 _"Well learn to be, Harry!"_

 _"NO! I hate you, Sirius!"_

 _Young Harry had stormed from the Hogwarts classroom in a fury. How dare he talk to Harry like that? Didn't he know that he was trying his hardest? He was trying his hardest, but…_

 _He didn't really want to kill his only friend, even if he had killed his parents. Could you blame him? The only one who had been nice to him, and he had known him much longer than anyone else here, knew him before he found out that he had been the one to kill Harry's parents. It had taken him a long time to forgive Voldemort, but it had been worth it in the end. He still had a friend now, and he didn't have to worry about losing him. Still, he would have chosen Sirius over Voldemort, if only because he was his godfather. Voldemort had never been very nice to anyone besides Harry, and Harry did value kindness, even if Voldemort was blind to it._

 _Voldemort was only about ten – or was it fifteen – years older than Harry, it had been a shock to him. How a nine year old kill people without a second thought, Harry would never understand. When Harry had asked him how he could do that, he just told Harry that that was how he was raised._

 _"Harry, what are you doing out in the forest? Isn't it dangerous for you, dear?" a voice asked from behind him. Harry jumped at the voice, and swiftly turned around preparing himself to fight away any enemies._

 _Oh, it was just Voldemort. Voldemort wouldn't hurt him._

 _"I-I got in a fight with Siri… Voldemort, does he still love me?" Harry sniffled, his eyes focused intently on the ground._

 _"No."_

 _Harry whipped his eyes up to look into red ones faster than should have been possible for his little neck. Sirius didn't love him anymore? Voldemort couldn't lie, but maybe he was joking. No, those usually gentle red eyes were hard and serious._

 _"But… H-He doesn't love me?" Harry whimpered. Voldemort smiled and embraced him in a rare hug._

 _"He doesn't, my dear. Harry, I have an idea…" Voldemort cooed him through his plan, showing him only the pros should he go through with it. A silver knife with a leather grip was pressed into Harry's hand._

 _~X~X~X~_

 _Harry had walked back to the castle, the knife hidden snuggly away in his waist band._

 _"_ _ **And should he yell at you again, defend yourself and brandish this knife. If he tells you to put it down –**_ _"_

 _"Harry! Harry, why did you run away? You still need to train!" It was obvious that Sirius had yet to get over his anger. Harry took the knife from his pants and held it pointed at Sirius._

 _"Shut up."_

 _"Harry James Potter! Put that down, it's dangerous for little boys to play with knives!" Sirius only used his full name when he was in trouble, but Harry simply could not let this slide._

 _"I'm not little anymore, Sirius!" Harry yelled as he ran up to his godfather to show him that he had grown up to fight, just like Sirius and Dumbledore had always wanted him to. The silver knife was tainted with the same scarlet shade of Voldemort's eyes, stained with the blood flowing out of his godfather's throat._

 _"_ _ **Kill him in his tracks, my dear Harry.**_ _"_

 _Sirius had wide eyes and choked on the red liquid flowing out of his mouth and neck. It was a pretty color… But Sirius didn't love him, so it was okay to think that. That's what Voldemort told him._

 _"I love you… Harry…"_

 _Wait, didn't Voldemort say that Sirius didn't love him? No… Voldemort can't lie, he wasn't allowed to. No more secrets, they would share everything, they were_ friends _! Harry didn't have any other friends, and everything he knew came from short stories of his parents and fairytales that Dumbledore would read him when he had a nightmare. Friends shared things, they didn't lie. Why had Voldemort told him that Sirius didn't love him? Was Sirius lying? No, that wasn't right either, a dead man's last words were always true, he learned that from Dumbledore's stories to._

 _Voldemort just had him kill his godfather…_

 _No…_

 _He wouldn't do that, he was Harry's friend._

 _Right?_

 _Harry looked at the knife still clutched in his hand. He was a murderer, just as bad a Voldemort._

 _If he was already a murderer… then what would one more kill be? He could get revenge for his godfather, couldn't he? He could kill Voldemort, his friend…_

 _Yes, that was the only option._

 _One day, he, Harry James Potter, would kill his parents' murderer and get revenge for his godfather to. He needed to train harder, Sirius was right, he was weak._

 _He had to be strong to kill his ex-friend._

~X~X~X~

~X~X~X~

 _A/N:_ Sorry this took so long. I was very deep in writer's block... Tom's much harder to write than he usually was. I got stuck right when Tom walked in, like, how do I want this thing to go down? Anyway, I still don't have a beta. If you want to volunteer... Kidding, no one needs to volunteer to try to understand my writing update times...

Please review!

~Nylffn


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